


Saved

by magickbeing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate 7th book, Alternate Universe, Cutting, M/M, Mental Illness, Schizophrenia, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, dark themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 14:31:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4832708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magickbeing/pseuds/magickbeing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magic had saved him on more than one occasion. In an ironic twist, it had decided to destroy him as well. It was unconquerable, unquenchable, devouring every part of him that resisted. It was a lake during a storm, its waves crashing against him, swallowing him whole & beating him senseless. He felt weak, powerless—mad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story was started in 2012. It's been a plot I've had in mind since I was sixteen or seventeen - in other words, it's something I've brain-stormed over the past ten years. It's a WIP. I'll admit to having abandoned it for a few years when my inspiration left me for Harry Potter and I became enthralled with other fandoms... but considering I still have the plot in mind and have a sudden bout of inspiration and have continued working on it, I thought I'd post it here.
> 
> But because the bulk of it (the first 16 chapters) were written three years ago, my writing style has no doubt changed some, as has my grammar and spelling. I apologize for any mistakes and please, if you enjoy this story, PLEASE REVIEW. I'll be completely honest - the feedback helps feed my muse and lets me know I'm not just writing for an empty room.
> 
> Oh, and FYI - the lyrics at the beginning of each chapter don't necessarily coincide with the contents of that chapter... sometimes, if I remember correctly, it's just a song that I felt related in some vague way - enough to feed my muse and be on repeat while I was writing.

 

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. Self-Conclusion is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

**Saved**

by MagickBeing

&. **Prologue**

x

_We all flirt with the tiniest notion_

_of self-conclusion in one simplified motion,_

_you see, the trick is that you're never supposed to act on it,_

_no matter how unbearable this misery gets._

/ / Self-Conclusion by The Spill Canvas

x

Rain hit the window gently, catching the firelight and breaking the night with small, glittering trails of water. Harry Potter stared out the window with dark eyes, past his reflection, and eyed the grounds of Hogwarts with little interest. His heart was heavy with each breath—he was much too aware of it in his chest, much too aware of its frantic but steady beats. Guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders. He swallowed hard, the corner of his mouth twitching as lightning flashed in the distance.

He had managed to do the impossible.

He had managed to live.

He should be on top of the world right then, careless and happy and alive—but instead, he was overcome with an unexplainable sadness, an emptiness even the lightning could not illuminate. How dare he feel like this? How dare he feel so pathetic and ungrateful when there were hundreds, _thousands_ of people who were no longer able to feel anything? He exhaled sharply, his eyes burning, and turned away from the window. He had no right. He had no right to be depressed, wallowing in unexplained self-pity. Voldemort was gone and he was there and he should be happy, dammit. He practically collapsed onto the couch, a pile of tangled limbs and aching muscles. Shifting a bit where he sat, Harry flinched as a piece of firewood cracked. He was so pathetic. So bloody pathetic.

Ever since the start of the semester, Harry had wandered the halls of Hogwarts a shadow of himself. He had heard Hermione and Ron discussing it, one night, when they thought he was asleep up stairs. Hermione had said, in hushed tones, that it was almost as if a part of Harry had died when he had conquered Voldemort. Where had his light gone, his thirst for life? It was a question not meant for his ears and yet it was one of the few things that had broken through his emptiness. He had been completely unable to put his feelings into words before then but what Hermione had said made perfect since. That _was_ what he felt like—like a piece of him had been lost, like some important, needed part had died. Hermione had assured both Ron and herself that he simply needed time, that this was an adjustment—any change was an adjustment, no matter how good it was. Harry's entire existence had revolved around Voldemort, whether he had been aware of it or not, and now he was simply off balanced. It would take time, but soon, Harry would be whole again, light and alive.

He knew there had been a time he was happy, especially here, at Hogwarts—but, for the life of him, he couldn't remember that feeling. It was as if his emptiness had swallowed those memories and trying desperately to remember felt very much like cupping water in his hands—short lived and pointless, nearly impossible.

Harry shifted where he sat again, pulling his legs up, onto the couch and near his chest, his back against its arm. He wrapped his arms loosely around his abdomen, fingering the hems of his shirt, looking very much like he felt—like he was trying to hold himself together at the seams, like he was fighting hard not to fall, spin into oblivion and never resurface. He thought of Sirius, of Fred, Lupin, Tonks, Dobby—the list was endless. More than fifty students had fallen that day, along with hundreds of Aurors and Ministry workers, and thousands of pedestrians, people who had done nothing but been at the wrong place at the wrong time. His heart _hurt_ and Harry squeezed his eyes shut, taking a slow, shuddering breath.

Their faces flashed across his mind and he felt as if he were going to be sick.

This sadness—it was unconquerable, unquenchable, devouring every part of Harry that tried resisting. It was a lake during a storm, its waves crashing against him, swallowing him whole and beating him senseless. He felt weak, powerless—mad. Harry felt as if his sanity was slipping, falling somewhere dark and he could do nothing but grasp at it, desperately, claw at it and try covering himself with what little he could manage to hold. His eyes were burning again and there was something hard in his throat—unable to push it down, hot tears slipped past his eyelashes and he let out a hard breath, a strangled grasp, and clawed at his sides, his fingers twisting, gripping, pulling what ever they could get a hold of.

_So pathetic._


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. Sabotage Internal is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

**Saved**

by MagickBeing

 **&.** Chapter One

x

 _Talk to me like there was no suffering_ ,

 _like I didn't tumble deeper, just to lose another keeper_ ,

_like I was who I used to be._

_Oh, bear with me. I had to try everything—_

_Jekyll infiltrate my Hyde._

/ / Sabotage Internal by The Spill Canvas.

x

His classes flew by with an unprecedented speed.

Harry had simply went through the motions, dutifully taking notes and practicing his spell-work, but with very little thought. He absorbed none of what was said to him. Unbeknownst to him, he had walked away from several conversations through out the day, turning abruptly when someone was in mid-sentence. He was a wall, expressionless and empty, and it wasn't until he was in the library late that evening that he blinked out of his stupor, peering through the fog blanketing his mind.

There were several books sprawled across the table in front of him, some of which were open, but upside down, clearly of no apparent use. He furrowed his brow, eying their worn appearance with vague curiosity. He flipped one over, scanning its first few lines but unable to comprehend. What was this—German? Fairly certain that he had never been able to speak German, nor had he ever had a passing interest in the language, Harry tried remembering its purpose. His mind drew a blank and he tried remembering further, tried thinking of class and their lessons—had he even attended lunch or dinner? He couldn't even remember moving from the couch in the common room the night before, his cheeks flushing at the thought. Panic gripped at his heart and he slammed the book shut, pushing it away in a rush. He flinched as it slid off of the table, landing on the floor with a loud _thump!,_ its noise interrupting the quiet environment of the library.

He swallowed, looking around.

A student he barely recognized glared at him from a nearby table, and Harry quickly looked away, refusing to meet their eyes or offer an apology. Carefully, he moved to pick up the book, dropping it haphazardly on the table. They were glaring again, but he ignored it, settling back into his chair.

His eyes flicked to the next table, the corner of his mouth twitching when green eyes met gray.

Draco Malfoy offered him a cold smirk and Harry pursed his lips, glaring at the other for good measure. The smirk widened and Harry rolled his eyes. He gave Draco a disgusted look and adverted his eyes, looking back down at the books sprawled across his table. The war had left the wizarding world in shambles. Many had disappeared—many more had died—and everyone had tried picking up the pieces of their lives as quickly as possible. New laws were considered and passed and defenses repaired—everybody's eyes were on the horizon, too strained to celebrate the end of the darkness and the rise of the light. People were concerned, obsessed with the possibility that it was simply a stalemate, not an end, and that another war was on its way. They were frantic to find some sort of preventive measure and turned their eyes onto the children of known or captured Death Eater's. Those children—they had been raised in darkness, had no doubt been fed it their entire lives—they had darkness in their heart and they should be locked up—or better yet, eradicated, given the kiss and sentenced to a self-imprisonment. The Ministry tried placating the public by trying children, teenagers, forcing them to take veritaserum—Draco had been one of the first to volunteer, but the Ministry backed out of the arrangement, deciding that they were unable to prosecute children simply because of their parents crimes. Harry had the sinking feeling that there had been a lot of money involved with that decision, but the Ministry showed no paper trail. Whether Draco, and other Slytherins, were truly innocent or had simply called the Ministry's bluff—Harry would never know.

His skin prickled, the hair on the back of his neck and arms raising, goosebumps covering his skin. He could feel Draco's eyes and he tried to ignore it, scanning a few more of the books he had chosen. There was another one about muggle wars and Harry furrowed his brow, unable to remember grabbing it. Pushing his glasses up with his forefinger, he glanced up; Draco was still staring at him, his expression unreadable. Harry quickly adverted his eyes and began stacking the books that were of no apparent use—which was basically every one he had grabbed. It was then that it happened again—Draco watched, with slight curiosity, as Harry's irritated expression melted into something else. The emptiness was written across his face and when Harry looked up again, dead, blank eyes met Draco's own. Draco narrowed his eyes. Over the years, he had become very aware of Harry's presence, partly out of duty to his family and their cause, and partly out of fascination. Despite the fact that their cause had abruptly ended, Draco found that old habits died hard—when ever Harry was in the same room, Draco found himself watching him, studying him for signs of weakness and, appropriately, pouncing when they spotted. Since the beginning of term, Harry's weaknesses were more apparent than ever. Draco he had seen the emptiness in his heart, witnessed it taking over and blanketing his demeanor. He could see Harry's cracks as plain as day and it gave him a silent thrill. He was ecstatic that a piece of Harry's life was in ruins, too, that someone had managed to take something from him just as he had taken something from so many others.

Harry stood, walking in his direction, and Draco watched intently as he headed toward the stacks.

"The phoenix flies true north," Harry muttered, his voice barely audible as he passed, "and traitors burn."

Draco's eyes darkened and he raised an eyebrow to his back.

"Excuse me, Potter?" he sneered.

The nearest student coughed loudly, glaring, and Draco turned in his seat. He gave the other a pointed look of his own, his mouth twisted into a scowl, and as if suddenly realizing who he was, the student looked away with wide eyes and went to packing his rucksack. Draco shifted again, his eyes flicking back to Harry, who was returning to his previous table, eyes downcast. He sat without a word and Draco stared at him for a long moment, irritation blanketing his chest. He would _not_ be ignored by the likes of _him._

And so, Draco pounced.

With a scrape of his chair, Draco stood up and strutted over to Harry's table. He laid his hands flat against the wood, smirking slightly.

"What did you just say, Scar-face?" he asked, his voice low, challenging. Harry refused to meet his eyes, focusing instead on the remaining book, and with a single, languid movement, Draco reached out and closed it, slamming it shut. His hand was flat against the cover, now, and yet Harry simply stared.

"Deaf and mute, Potter?" he sneered.

Finally, Harry's eyes flicked up, meeting Draco's, and Draco was unsurprised at their lifelessness. A thrill of pleasure shot through his body and he clenched his jaw, repeating his question a final time, pausing between each word for emphasis—

"What did you just say?"

Harry blinked, still expressionless, and slipped the book out from under Draco's hand. Draco scowled as Harry moved to stand—he reached out, reflexively, and pushed down on Harry's shoulder, knocking him back into his seat. Harry startled, dropping the book as his eyes flicked to Draco's face.

"What the hell, Malfoy?" he growled, pulling back.

Draco smirked, his hand falling back onto the table.

"I won't be ignored by the likes of _you,_ " he said, his disgust apparent in his voice.

Harry furrowed his brow, his mouth twisting into a slight frown. Ignoring him? The last Harry had remembered, Draco had been seated across the aisle—he shook his head.

"You're off your bloody rocker, Malfoy," he muttered, eyes dropping to the table.

Where had his books gone?

"Funny," he continued, eyes flashing as he looked back at the Slytherin, "but what did you do with my books?"

Both of Draco's eyebrows shot up and his smirk widened.

"And I'm off my rocker?" he asked.

Harry rolled his eyes. What ever game Draco was playing at—well, he refused to take the bait.

"What ever, Malfoy," he muttered, pushing his chair back and standing. Draco didn't stop him this time, instead watching with slight amusement as Harry moved, tripping over the book he had dropped. He stared down at it for a long moment, clearly confused, before kneeling down to get it. He could hear Draco snickering behind him and he gritted his teeth. He was _so_ not in the mood right then.

He straightened, and started toward the stacks again, tossing over his shoulder, "Just bugger off, ferret."

Draco uttered no reply, his smirk still firmly in place as he watched Harry return the book and wander out of the library. He looked back to the table Harry had been sitting at, pleased to see that the other had left his rucksack—his eyes lit up and he moved forward, dumping outs its contents in a single movement. A piece of wood caught the light and, instinctively, he picked it up, another silent thrill coursing through his body.

Twirling Harry's wand easily in his fingers, Draco's mouth twisted into an easy, dark smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review!


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. Firm Believer is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

**Saved**

by MagickBeing

**&.Chapter 2**

X **  
**

_I'm spread so thin_ ,  
_I need something to believe in._

_I used to be a firm believer_  
_of the greater good.._

/ / Firm Believer by The Spill Canvas.

X

Shortly after Harry left the library, he felt sick; he felt weak in the knees, his stomach flipping with every step, and there were beads of sweat trickling down the back of his neck. Pulling at his shirt collar, Harry steadied himself against the nearby wall, its stone cool to the touch. He let out a slow, shuddering breath and practically collapsed against it, sliding down to the floor, his back against the stone. His chest felt heavy, tight, and it was growing harder for him to breathe. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes until he saw stars.

What was _wrong_ with him? The hallways were darkening, the torches doing very little to illuminate the stone—Harry couldn't see it through his closed eyes, but he could feel it. He could feel the darkness around him, wrapping itself around his body and tightening, squeezing—he inhaled sharply, unable to exhale. His heart was pounding, quick and frantic, and Harry's eyes opened with a start. He gasped for breath, blood rushing to his head, and after a long, torturous minute, his lungs filled. The air was cool in his chest but it wasn't enough, never enough, and Harry's sadness returned, intertwining with the darkness and closing around his chest. A few minutes later, Harry saw black, completely oblivious as his body hit the floor.

X

Everything was warm.

Too warm.

The sun was bright in the sky and there was a sweltering heat. He pulled at his shirt collar and continued, running up the hill as quickly as he could. He stopped at its peak, his breath catching in his throat; it was beautiful. There were hundreds—no, thousands—of sunflowers, bright gold stretching as far as his eye could see. In the distance, a slow fog rolled in and Harry panicked as it reached the sun. The sky darkened and there was a flash of lightning, red in color, and he fell back, surprised.

He could hear screams in the distance, yells for help, but his body was still, a tightly wound coil that refused to move.

Another flash of red—the lightning split the earth and the sunflowers wilted, their golden petals turning a rusty brown as they fell to the ground. Their stems moved, twisted, slithered against the ground, and a thousand snakes covered the valley, eyes bright red. Harry tried to struggle as they slithered underneath him, over his hands and around his wrists, and the screaming grew louder.

He awoke with a start, sweat pooling against his collarbone as he realized, in a rush, that the screaming was no one's but his own. Pomfrey was on him in an instant.

"Mr. Potter," she called, placing a cool hand against his shoulder. "Calm yourself. It's okay—you're okay."

Harry shook his head, clawing at his sheets. He could see their eyes, feel their slippery scales against his skin—he thrashed, Pomfrey's hand doing little to still him.

"No—no, I'm not—I—"

And then silence.

Harry practically deflated against the bed, his eyes lingering on Pomfrey's wand.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Potter," she said quietly, tucking it back into her vest, "but you must get a hold of yourself."

Harry nodded mutely and his breathing steadied.

She let out a slow sigh and her hand moved to his forehead.

"You're burning up," she muttered, a slight frown marring her features. Her eyes met Harry's. "Another student found you in the hallway—a Hufflepuff, I believe. Tell me, Mr. Potter—how long have you felt ill?"

Harry adverted his eyes, shrugging. His thoughts were clearer, now, but he felt groggy, his eyelids heavy. The better question would be how long _hadn't_ he felt ill. He wanted to tell her that, but he found himself unable to speak. Instead, he simply laid there, eyes staring ahead, and he could hear, rather than see, Pomfrey shake her head with a soft _tsk._ He tried remembering how he had gotten there, but it was a blur. He could only see darkness, solid and cold, and his eyes slipped shut. Vial in hand, Pomfrey moved closer to him, studying his face with worried eyes. She knew there had been a change in the boy—many of the professors were worried, but as the Headmistress said, Harry had done a great thing. A dangerous thing, and it had taken a lot out of him. His wounds, like everyone's, would heal in time. Over the course of the war, McGonagall had developed some of Dumbledore's wisdom, and Pomfrey tried desperately to believe her words.

"Mr. Potter," she said quietly, sensing that he was still awake. "I need you to take this."

Green eyes opened and, with a bit of subdued effort, Harry managed himself into a sitting position.

He reached for the vial without thought or word, and Pomfrey carefully passed it to him.

"It'll help you regain your strength," she said quietly, "and help your antibodies fight the virus. It appears you have the flu."

Harry nodded and she reached out to uncork the vial for him. He tossed it back in a single swallow, his nose scrunching up a bit at the taste—a bit similar to rotten pumpkin juice and raspberry tarts—and handed her the empty vial. The small, coherent part of Harry, was pleased to hear that it was simply the flu. Maybe, hopefully, the sadness would disappear with it. With Pomfrey's potions, he would no doubt be better within a few hours. Students rarely missed a full day of classes. Finally, he met Pomfrey's eyes, and gave her a small, barely-there smile.

"Thanks," he muttered, his voice hoarse.

Pomfrey smiled down at him and reminded him very much of Ron's mum, Molly Weasley. Brown, lifeless eyes flashed in front of him and his heart ached. He looked away and Pomfrey's smile grew sad. Typically, she would send the student on their way with another vial for an hour from then and the very strict instructions to get plenty of bed rest—but she could see the strain behind Harry's eyes and she decided to keep him under careful watch, at least until he was better.

She cleared her throat. McGonagall might be wise, but _she_ was the nurse.

"Yes, well, do get some rest, Mr. Potter. You'll be free to go in the morning—provided you're better, of course. I'll bring another vial to you within the hour."

Pomfrey lingered for but a moment longer before turning and retreating to her office, her heart aching for the boy in the bed.

Harry waited until he heard the soft _click_ of her door before raising his eyes. He looked around the dimly lit hospital wing, its white sheets reflecting the torchlight, nearly glowing. He appeared to be the only one there—he sighed, half wishing that he had company. He didn't think he would actually manage a conversation with anyone, but they would provide a welcome distraction. People watching was much easier on his heart—and head—than being left to his own devices. As if on cue, he could feel he sadness setting in again and he struggled to breathe against it.

X

Word spread quickly. Apparently, as loyal as Hufflepuffs were, they had an absolutely horrible time keeping their mouths shut. The news reached Hermione and Ron within the hour—Harry Potter, the boy who lived, had been found unconscious in a hall way and was now in the hospital wing. Naturally, they dropped everything—even studying—and rushed to Harry's aide.

"Hurry, Ron," Hermione called, nearing the stairs first.

Ron made a face behind her back.

"It's not like he's going anywhere, 'Mione," he muttered, quiet enough for the other to miss. It wasn't that Ron wasn't concerned—he was, had been since things had ended—but Ron dealt with his concern in a considerably different way. Hermione was all worried eyes and concerned questions. Ron was awkward small talk and strained smiles.

They were in the hospital wing soon enough, Hermione practically shoving the door open, spotting Harry's unruly head of hair with unsurprising ease. It was a stark contrast against the white sheets and Harry looked dreadfully pale, his complexion sunken. She rushed forward, Ron in tow, and shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, wanting very much to reach out but resisting.

"Are you okay, Harry?" she asked, her voice a pitch higher than usual. Like Draco, Hermione, too, had seen the emptiness in his heart. She had witnessed his mood swings first hand, watched as he walked away from her, completely unaware, as she was in mid-sentence. She had heard Harry's screams late at night and paid careful attention to the darkening circles under his eyes. She had watched him pick at his food, unable to really eat, and bury himself in his studies in an attempt to placate her and Ron.

"Yeah, mate, what happened?" Ron asked, after catching Hermione's deliberate look in his direction.

Harry was relieved when his friends walked into the hospital wing. The sadness edged away and he had a distraction, something to take his mind off of death and darkness. He imagined he should feel something else, too—happiness, happiness that they were there, alive, and obviously cared about him—but the nothingness throbbed.

"Flu," he replied, his voice just as hoarse as before. Vaguely, he attributed it to his screaming.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione said gently, her worry apparent. "I'm so glad someone found you—"

She paused, biting back a shuddering breath, and Ron was quick to cover for her.

"You'll be better in no time, yeah?"

She looked at him and offered a small smile, quickly getting a hold of herself. She had been so worried about Harry for so long—seeing him here, so frail and sick looking—she deliberately turned away from those thoughts. Crying wouldn't do her any good right then and would probably only serve to make both Harry and Ron extremely uncomfortable. Visibly straightening, she turned back to Harry. Withdrawing something from the pocket of her robes, she held out a small bundle and offered him a bright smile.

"We brought you something."

Harry eyed it carefully, unable to tell what it was.

Hermione's eyes flicked from his to the bundle and back.

"Oh, right," she mumbled, her face flushing a bit. Withdrawing her wand, she muttered the enlarging charm and, within a second, she was holding a pile of clothing.

"Pajamas," she explained, setting them on his bed. "Ron got them from your trunk—so don't blame me if they don't match."

He looked to Ron, who offered him a sheepish grin.

"It was too weird touching your stuff," he mumbled, shrugging. "Knickers and all—sorry, mate."

Harry stared at him for a long moment, something hard working its way up his chest and into his throat.

And then he did something that surprised even himself—he laughed.

Ron's face flushed a bit but his grin widened. Hermione's expression almost mirrored Ron's—it was nice to hear Harry laugh. It had been so long, too long, and Hermione half-wished it never stopped. She had watched, heart broken, as the light inside of Harry extinguished to a mere flicker. Occasionally, like right then, it would brighten—but it was only temporary, no matter how Hermione wanted to believe otherwise.

Sensing that he was in a better mood than he had been in days, if not weeks, Ron started talking about the upcoming Quidditch season. Harry listened intently at first, but it wasn't long into the conversation that he became bored, lifeless, and luckily for him, Pomfrey intervened. He was barely aware of her talking to Ron and Hermione—barely aware as his two friends left and Pomfrey handed him another potion. He took it without a word, his actions automatic, and excused himself to change into his clothes. Pomfrey tried explaining what the potion would do, but Harry walked away and into the loo. She frowned a bit at the door, shaking her head, and retired to her office—she would explain the effects tomorrow, when Harry was feeling better.

When Harry returned to his bed, he fluffed his pillow and practically collapsed, the darkness closing in on him in a matter of minutes.

He envisioned sunflowers and snakes.

X

Harry awoke to a soft rustling later that night. He squinted through the darkness—the torchlight was dimmer, now, and his curtains were drawn. They were swaying back and forth, gently at first, and then quicker. Harry watched them, confused, and tried thinking through his grogginess. His eyes adjusted in a matter of seconds and he could see a shadow pass in front of his bed, rattling the curtains as they moved. His entire body tensed. It was sort of ironic, really—Harry had faced Voldemort on more than one occasion—he had wrestled with a Baslik and faced off giant spiders—and yet, right then, the shadow before him seemed a bigger threat. With a slow, even breath, he reached up and pulled the cord to separate the curtains. They sprung back and Harry's eyes darkened when he spotted the perpetrator.

Draco Malfoy stood directly in front of him, arms folded easily over his abdomen, a smirk plastered on his pointed face. In one hand, he twirled his wand slowly, his eyes meeting Harry's. Harry squinted at him, able to make out that head of hair even in this dark, blurred room.

"Morning, Potter," he greeted, his eyebrows darting up for a split second.

Harry wanted very much to throw his pillow at him, tell him to bugger off, and pull the curtains closed again.

Instead, reached for his glasses and sighed, saying, "What the hell do you want, Malfoy?"

Draco's smirk widened and he edged closer.

"Now, now," he muttered, faking concern, "is that any way to talk to the person that found.. this?"

He held the wand still for a moment, letting his words sink in, and then continued to twirl it between his long fingers. Harry stared at him in disbelief, frowning. Did he really think he was that stupid? Harry never left his wand laying about. It was always firmly on his person. It had to be, what with Voldemort lurking around for so many years. He shook his head and gave Draco a bored look.

"Nice try, Malfoy," he muttered, reaching for his wand beneath his pillow. Much to Draco's amusement—and expectations—Harry came up empty handed. His forehead lined with confusion, Harry stared at the space under his pillow for a long moment. He could have _sworn_ he had put his wand there earlier—he looked back to Draco, the piece of wood glinting in the light. Since his night terrors had started, Harry had been a very light sleeper. He was fairly certain that there was no way Draco could have weaseled it out from underneath his head. He frowned a bit, swallowing, and focused on Draco's face. Draco was almost smiling at him, but it wasn't a nice sort of smile. It was cool, calculating—twisted, really—and Harry sighed.

"That's what I thought," Draco said, his smile widening. Harry quickly decided he didn't like it when Draco smiled.

Through a clenched jaw, Harry spat out, "What do you want for it?"

Draco cocked his head to the side, his eyebrows raising.

"No," he corrected, clearly taunting. "The question is—what will you _do_ for it?"

Harry nearly scowled. He knew Draco. He knew he had no intention of giving him his wand back. He was just baiting him with it, gloating, really, and Harry felt irritation bubbling in his chest. He was more irritated at himself than Draco. He was irritated that he had been so stupid, so bloody stupid, as to leave it somewhere the other could grab it. He expected more of himself—of Draco, he expected nothing less.

"Anything," he finally muttered, giving Draco the reply he knew he wanted.

Draco shook his head, pacing back and forth at the end of his bed. He tapped his jaw casually, pretending to be in thought. His eyes flashed as they met Harry's again.

"That's awfully vague, Potter," he replied, smirking again. Harry would have to do better than that if he wanted it back—and even then, Draco wouldn't return it. Even with Voldemort dead, Harry Potter's wand was a prized possession. He knew men that would kill for it—literally. The shadows traced Harry's face and Draco could see the muscles in his jaw working. He stepped closer, challenging Harry. He really hoped he remembered this moment forever—the moment that _he_ had managed to get the upper-hand, the moment that _he_ could make Harry feel some of what he felt—defeat. "You're going to have to do better than that."

Harry gave Draco a disgusted look, adverting his eyes. He was at a complete loss for what the other wanted—did he really expect him to beg? Harry let out an audible snort at the thought. Knowing Draco, probably. His irritation increased and then he felt it shift into something more—anger. Complete, irrational anger. His face fell and then his mind was blank.

Draco, too, was aware of the change in Harry. He could see the shift—Harry's shoulders straightened, tensed, and his entire body looked to be on alert. And his face—his face became expressionless, the nothingness taking place of his disgust and irritation. Draco's smirk shifted into a scowl. He was _not_ getting out of this one so easily—Draco was going to rub it in his face, dammit. He was going to have his moment.

And then, everything changed.

Suddenly, and with surprising speed, Harry lunged forward, off of the bed. The blankets fell to the floor, unwinding from his body and freeing him as if by magic. Draco stepped back and to the side, automatically raising his wand and shouting a curse—there was a flash of red light, considerably dimmer than it should be, and with a flash, Draco remembered that he was holding Harry's wand, not his own. The _stupefy! m_ issed, shooting just past Harry's shoulder. Draco's eyes widened and he stumbled back, nearly knocking over a shelf, and Harry hesitated. Their eyes met and Harry did something rather unexpected. He smiled. It was dark and twisted, much like Draco's own, and then Harry turned, lunging toward the window. Several things rushed through Draco's mind. The first was, of course, a string of obscenities—the second? What the _hell_ was Potter doing? At least those windows were enchanted—wait, why is he heading for the window? He watched, almost statuesque, as Harry slammed his fists against the glass, again and again, the noise echoing through the hospital wing. Draco furrowed his brow, eyes widening as the castle's magic visibly wavered. There was a soft flash of blue and a rush of wind, followed by a loud crash—the glass shattered, propelling itself forward, and Draco shielded himself, his eyes on Harry again. Harry stepped back and suddenly, Draco realized what he was going to do.

He was going to jump.

In retrospect, Draco would wonder what was going through his mind at that exact moment—but right then, he had no time for coherent thought, only instinct. He rushed forward, narrowly grabbing Harry's shirt and pulling him back. Harry stumbled and then Draco secured his arms around his waist as he tried making another lunge forward. He could see Harry's hands, now—the glass had embedded itself into his skin, and blood dripped to the floor. Draco grimaced, nearly letting go. He had never been particularly fond of the sight of blood—he enjoyed mental torture much more than physical. It was more challenging and therefore, more rewarding—and less messy. Usually.

Harry thrashed in his arms and, with a surprising amount of effort, Draco managed to wrestle Harry back.

"Potter—Potter, stop!" he growled, his face against the side of Harry's neck.

If anything, Harry's struggling increased. He pushed back against Draco, digging his fingers into his arms, and Draco could feel pieces of glass digging into his skin as Harry pushed and clawed. He put his weight into it and then they were both on the floor. Draco could feel bigger shards dig into his shoulder and back—he groaned, careful to keep his grip tight, and pushed past the pain as Harry continued to thrash. They pushed and shoved at each other and, at one point, Draco was fairly certain Harry had tried biting him—but then, it ended as quickly as it had begun.

Harry practically deflated in his arms, and Draco was too aware of his own breathing, loud and ragged.

There were hard sobs, then, choked and desperate, and Harry pushed himself closer, burying his face in Draco's shoulder. Draco's grip loosened and he simply held still, dumbfounded, his arms going limp against his sides.

Harry clung to him for dear life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review!


	4. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. The Truth is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

**Saved**

by MagickBeing

**&.Chapter 3**

X

_There's a part in everyday,_

_where I lie to myself and say that it's okay.  
'cause if I don't I think I'll go insane._

_But the truth is, I only have myself to blame._

/ / The Truth by The Spill Canvas.

X

When Harry awoke the next morning, he was aware of two things—he would never, _ever_ be a morning person, and, his entire body ached.

He squinted up at the ceiling, blinking away his grogginess. He recognized the white curtains of the hospital wing almost instantly—stretching a bit, he winced, wondering why Pomfrey's potions weren't working. He was too warm, unpleasantly so, and his hands and arms ached. He shifted and reached out, past the curtains, and for his glasses. Putting them on, everything came into focus and the curtains sprung open. He startled, meeting the blood-shot eyes of Pomfrey.

"Err, 'morning?"

Pomfrey said nothing and instead stepped back. Harry's eyes moved past her and to Professor McGonagall. The bed beside his had been replaced with two wooden chairs. Professor McGonagall inhabited one and Pomfrey collapsed into the other. Harry tried shrugging off his grogginess and sat up, eyes flicking from one person to the other and back.

"Mr. Potter, I do believe we need to talk," said Professor McGonagall. She leaned forward, her eyes dark. There were lines around her eyes and her skin was slightly darker, sunken, amplified by the thin rims of her glasses. She looked much older, then, tired, and there was a touch of concern in her voice. Harry eyed her carefully, curious, a knot forming in his stomach.

"Okay," he said quietly, not quite meeting her eyes. His stomach flipped and panic gripped his heart, hot and cold at the same time. Professor McGonagall was tense, too tense, and Pomfrey kept shifting beside her. Something had happened—he could feel it and the dread was building, intertwining itself around the panic and working its way up his throat. He looked down at his lap and at his hands. They were blotchy, spots of white covering his hands, wrists and forearms—he rubbed them absently, his words rough, choked. "What about?"

Professor McGonagall exhaled slowly, deliberately, and her voice was gentle.

"How have you been feeling lately, Harry?"

The use of his given name made his eyes flick up and he met her worried gaze with one of his own.

He thought carefully. The way she was looking at him—it was clear she wasn't inquiring about his bout of flu. He didn't want her to be worried about him, or worse yet, pity him. He had grown to despise pity. Pity lead to people getting hurt. People got too caught up, too protective and concerned, and then, people died. Harry didn't want anyone's pity and, unfortunately, he had been getting it in abundance since he had conquered Voldemort. He had half-hoped that he would fall out of the spot light, that people would thank him and rebuild their lives without interfering with his, but he wasn't that fortunate. The Daily Prophet ran weekly, if not daily, articles on him—what would he do now? Where would he go? Would he continue to defend people and become an Auror? Would he become power hungry and become the next Dark Lord? Did he feel useless, now that he had fulfilled his purpose? The questions were never-ending and Harry hated them.

He decided on a half-truth, hoping that it would placate Professor McGonagall and she would get to the point, his dread gripping his heart.

"Tired," he replied, his hands stilling.

Professor McGonagall nodded and her mouth was a thin line.

Harry looked away again.

"Have you felt anything else, Harry? Sad, angry?"

Harry swallowed, his eyebrows puckering ever-so-slightly. Out if his peripheral, he could see Pomfrey twisting a piece of her robes, wringing it in concern. He tensed, and before he could think of a lie, Professor McGonagall continued.

"We need to talk about what happened last night."

Harry glanced at her, searching her face. Here it was, then—maybe it was Ron or Hermione. Maybe something had happened. Maybe the rumors had been true; maybe he hadn't won, maybe Voldemort had survived, again, and had sought vengeance on his friends, those he loved and cherished. He licked his lips.

"Okay," he said with a shuddering breath. His words came out in a rush, his fear obvious. "Please, just tell me—is it Hermione? Ron? His family?"

Professor McGonagall visibly straightened, her eyebrows shooting up.

"No, no," she assured, too quickly for Harry's liking. She paused, her eyes surveying his face, and she pursed her lips. Before she could speak, Pomfrey did, her voice unusually quiet.

"Tell me, Harry," she said gently, startling Harry with the use of his given name—why was everyone acting like this? He looked at her, unable to feel the relief that should be accompanied with Professor McGonagall's reply. Naturally, Pomfrey had always been a bit of a mother figure to Harry, and other students. She tended to their wounds when they were hurt, or ill, and she had a sort of strict gentleness about her that mothers often carried—or so Harry had assumed when observing Mrs. Weasley or Granger—but looking at her right then, Harry could see none of the strictness. She had always been a take charge sort of woman, especially in the Hospital Wing, but she seemed resigned, tired and worn, just like Professor McGonagall. "Do you remember what happened last night, with Mr. Malfoy?"

Harry pulled a face, eyebrows raised, and shook his head. What on _earth_ was she talking about? What did _he_ have to do with _anything?_

"Oh, oh dear," Pomfrey replied, the words more of a sigh than anything else. She shared a look with Professor McGonagall that Harry didn't like—it was the sort of look that parents gave each other in front of misbehaving children, children who had been caught playing in the street or something of the sort. It was reprimanding and worried at the same time.

Harry's dread was turning into exasperation and he bit out, "Will someone _please_ just tell me what's going on?"

Professor McGonagall looked at him first—Pomfrey wouldn't quite meet his eyes and her lips were pursed, trembling, and Harry quickly looked away, focusing instead on the Headmistress.

"It appears," she started, her mouth twisted into a slight frown, "that you tried committing suicide last night."

Of all the things that Harry had expected to come out of her mouth—well, that was most certainly not on the list. He audibly scoffed. Dread and panic were quickly replaced with something else. Disbelief. He would _definitely_ remember trying _that—_ a dozen things rushed through his mind at once. He thought of his sadness, his anger, his guilt pulling at his heart. He thought of the last few weeks where there were hours, even days, that he couldn't remember—he thought of the distant look in Hermione and Ron's eyes, the hushed tones, whispers and secrets when they thought he wasn't looking—he thought of last night and tried hard, so hard, to remember something, anything, that would reinforce his disbelief and prove that she was lying, making up stories for Merlin knew what.

"No," he muttered, shaking his head, his disbelief darkening as he grasped, _scrounged,_ for his memory, unable to remember anything after Hermione and Ron visited. He peered into his memory but there was nothing but darkness, and his voice was much too hoarse for his liking, too rough and pathetic—always pathetic. "No. I didn't—I couldn't—I mean, I don't—I—"

Professor McGonagall exhaled slowly, swallowing, her frown apparent. A piece of her was breaking, then—she could practically see Harry grasping for a life line then, something, anything to hold him up and keep him sane. What ever the boy was going through, she hoped that he could push through it. He had had a hard life, much harder than many thought, and he had survived more trials than many credited him with. The fact that he didn't remember his obvious suicide attempt—it worried her more than she wanted to let on. She needed to be strong, then, for Harry.

Harry stopped trying to form a coherent sentence and instead settled with, "How?"

He was looking down at his lap again, his eyes burning uncomfortably. He felt so _pathetic._ If what she was saying was true, then shouldn't he want to die? Shouldn't he feel differently than he did right then? He felt sad, yes, frequently and frighteningly so, and sometimes it was outweighed by guilt or anger—but he didn't want to die. Harry tried reflecting on that thought. Was he unwilling to admit it because too many had died for him, because too many had died in his fight? No. It wasn't his fight. He didn't chose it—it was theirs, and he was a pawn, and he owed them _nothing._ Not anymore. There was a darkness crawling up his throat, then, and the nothingness was tearing at his mind. There was something inside of him, something that was pushing him down, further and further into that abyss, saying, _if only you had succeeded._

"How doesn't matter," Professor McGonagall said, quickly dismissing the question. "What's important is that Draco Malfoy was able to stop you."

Harry's eyes flashed. There was a flicker within the darkness and he looked up, only briefly.

"Maybe he staged it—maybe he—"

"Harry," Professor McGonagall interrupted, "don't. You need to confront these demons. Now—there are several things that need to be done to ensure that you're no longer a threat to yourself or others, and to properly diagnose your condition—"

She continued talking, but Harry had stopped listening. Draco had been there—Draco _had_ to have done something. He must have cursed him, put him under some sort of spell. Okay, so that was a bit farfetched. The only curse Harry could think of that would give Draco that sort of power was the unforgivable, which Harry had resisted in the past. Coupled with a well placed obliviate, however, or some other sort of memory altering charm, or maybe he was just lying, bloody lying, and—there was that small voice, again, laughing, and Harry's sadness and desperation were closing in.

"Harry?"

His eyes flicked up to meet Pomfrey's.

"I'm going to need you to face me," she said quietly. She was standing now, wand ready. Harry was on auto-pilot again, but more aware of it than before. He was somewhere else, outside of his body. He was a passerby, a simple witness, and he shrugged himself out of the blankets. He felt as if he were falling, spinning in dizzying designs, dropping at tremendous speeds with no sign of stopping. He sat on the edge of the bed. His feet were planted firmly on the floor but did little to ease his vertigo. He wanted to object. He wanted to tell her to put her wand away, that she had no right—didn't they need permission for what ever they were about to do? He was grasping at straws again, trying to think of something, anything, to drown out that voice and steady his footing.

Pomfrey straightened in front of him, her hands absently smoothing her robes. When her eyes met his, Harry quickly looked away—there was a slight line between her eyes, her brow wrinkled with concern, and her mouth was twisted into a slight frown. Her gaze was worried, rightfully so, and Harry was desperate to avoid it. He focused on a scuff mark on the floor, tracing it again and again with his eyes. Past his eyelashes, he could see Pomfrey raising her wand. She muttered something he didn't hear, and didn't care to, and slid her wand across the width of his head. She repeated the incantation and made a few more movements—Harry's eyes slipped shut and the darkness lurched.

When she was done, she nodded curtly to Professor McGonagall, and the two excused themselves.

Harry couldn't hear anything from Pomfrey's office, but he imagined the sound of their voices, their hushed tones and worried looks. He imagined all of the horrible things that could be wrong with him—he imagined the white walls of muggle mental hospitals portrayed on the telly. He imagined the straight jackets and the screaming. His eyes opened and he swallowed, hard.

He seriously considered fleeing.

If he could just go away—run away—then this would be but a memory and it didn't have to be real and he could go on as he was, sad, but Harry. Sad, but sane.

He heard the office door open and his entire body tensed. Very deliberately, Harry looked down at the floor again, refusing to meet their eyes.

McGonagall cleared her throat, folding her hands in front of her.

It was Pomfrey that spoke.

"Your results are.. interesting," she said delicately, her voice rough. It sounded as if she had been crying again—Harry set his jaw. "It appears that your magic is interfering, but there are certain things we can conclude."

Harry could see her shift and he focused harder on the scuff mark. If he just kept telling himself that this wasn't happening, maybe it wouldn't. Maybe he would wake up and be in his dormitories and this would all be some horrible dream, like the sunflowers and the snakes.

"I don't know how to tell you this, Harry," Professor McGonagall said, her voice soft. A long pause, and then, "But it appears you have schizophrenia."

And Harry's eyes met hers.

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE REVIEW!


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